This week we’re tilling and planting and digging and getting dirt-covered. We’re smelling fresh rain and marveling at shoots springing up everywhere. With soil in my gloved fingers, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.
I’ve been considering Fruit. Fruit on a vine, fruit plants in bunches lined in soil along our deck. Fruit waiting to bloom everywhere. And vegetables too – but the bible doesn’t talk of the “Vegetables of the Spirit”, so, we’ll stick with fruit for the purpose of being at least somewhat linear.
And the Fruit of the Spirit is what we’re discussing around our breakfast table this week too. Love, joy, peace – being patient, kind, and good. Being faithful, gentle, and having self-control – I so want all this. I strive for it. I dig and till, and water, and beg God for it.
This week, as I’ve strived to ‘not write’, I’ve realized writing is part of who I am. I’m hesitant to call myself a ‘writer’ – not sure I’ve earned that name. But I do know writing is like breathing for me. I write to communicate. I write to understand. I write to muddle through. I write to seek. I write to encourage. I write to realize I know nothing. I write to press into almighty God – to press into what really actually (seriously) matters. That writing here can actually be worship and a very real way of seeking Father God.
For me, to not write, is to not fully inhale and only partially exhale.
My parents tell me when I was a kid I’d go to bed talking and wake up continuing the conversation I couldn’t finish the night before. I still do that. My poor sweet husband tries desperately to stay awake at 1am while I talk on and on about injustice and Uganda and a family in Soroti I long to hold. It’s 1:12am and I’m still writing about building houses and holding orphans and scribbling the, “Oh LORD… let me see… open me fully Lord, that I would be more like You… USE ME, use me, use even me, if You will…” I often have to verbally remind myself to slow down, shush, and stop talking but the mind never stops and it won’t. Until I get it all out.
I chuckle now, thinking how God has a sense of humor in all this – you know, because He DID make me.
The same goes for pen to notebook or finger tips to keys. I can choose to not write, but I honestly feel I’ll bubble over if I don’t put thoughts to words and words to sentences. And those sentences become realizations. Sometimes epiphanies. Sometimes life-changing read-alouds when those divine ‘ah-ha’ moments leap forth from the recycled paper page. I am humbled to my knees at the times God speaks to me right through the clicking keys. Right through the sloppy pen strokes. And His truth can actually speak right through this little blog and this little heart of mine. And this is only possible because God uses the incredibly broken. Thank you, Jesus.
I’m captivated by tiny shoots and dark soil and every kind of growing plant, bursting with color and hope. I’m envisioning how God plants seeds in our very hearts and with His living water, makes them grow. And I feel the churning of the soil, the tilling, the newness and excitement of planting season – full of dreams and possibilities. And I’m longing for the springing up. The growth. The Fruit. Only through Him and only in Him does this amazing transformation of a soul take place. And I’ve been blessed to feel it, to know it. To not be there, but to ‘press on’ towards what He would have for me.
And – well, to keep writing about it. Because we are called to profess it with our lips and maybe that could mean through typed words that shoot up from the pit of my vulnerable heart and wind up here, on this little page or in a journal or on a piece of loose paper, sprawled cursive in the dimness of wee-hours.
And I’ll keep seeking and begging and clinging to the truth that He has a plan for these scribbles – ashes to beauty. Chicken scratch to eagle’s wings… but only by His grace.